


How Mary Welcomes Irene Home

by avawtsn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Cunnilingus, F/F, Face-Sitting, Femslash, Lesbian Sex, POV Mary Morstan, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fic, minor D/s, minor exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 01:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1963098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avawtsn/pseuds/avawtsn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: I'd love to see some Irene/Mary femslash. No John/Mary drama or S3 drama, just delicious smutty smut about two beautiful and complicated ladies. I would esp. love it if Irene comes home from a hard day at work dominating her clients to submit to her domme girlfriend Mary who knows just what she likes. Also, semi-public-maybe in front of a window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Mary Welcomes Irene Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cottonballz_of_death](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cottonballz_of_death/gifts).



> I was originally going to put this in my [tumblr drabbles on ao3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1645610), but then I realized that this fic actually more or less stands alone, with a beginning, middle, and end. So here it is with a slapdash title. I've only written genderbent johnlock thus far in the realm of femslash, so this was interesting, if unexpected. I've never read Mary/Irene so I didn't quite know what I was doing on more than one level. Any feedback, corrections, comments, please feel free to let me know here or on my [tumblr](http://avawatson.tumblr.com). Thank you for reading. <3
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://avawatson.tumblr.com/post/91882894279/prompt-thanks-for-asking-for-submissions-i-know) on tumblr. Anon de-anoned as cottonballz_of_death, so here's a gift for you!
> 
> Unbetaed, unbritpicked.

At the end of the day, Irene decompresses by disappearing into the bedroom. It’s just what she does, how she unwinds from her day. In these moments, Mary leaves her alone, usually spending her time wrangling dinner or catching up on the news or doing online research into her next job. Typically Irene emerges an hour later, freshly showered in old thin cotton that hugs her bones, ready for human interaction again, her mobile far, far away.

But work is work, no matter what you wear, and some days are worse than others. This evening, Irene comes home worn and weary. Mary can hear it in the drag of her Louboutins, the slam of the door, the drawing of the bath in the en suite; not a shower. Mary leaves her be, and two hours go by, not a sound in the flat except Mary’s intermittent typing.

When she opens the door to the bedroom, Irene’s asleep on the bed, feet still on the floor and the rest of her splayed like Sleeping Beauty, but all the colouring of Snow White. Her damp curls are free and soaking in dark curlicues right into the thousand threadcount duvet. She didn’t even climb under the covers.

Mary approaches quietly, crawls onto the bed next to her. She fingers open the dressing gown where it vees prettily at Irene’s sternum. The fabric drags over her nipple as it drops to the bed, leaving her breast exposed to the air. Irene stirs at that, a twitch in her eyelids and a scrunch of her nose growing until she blinks awake.

"Did I fall asleep?" she asks, as she stretches her arms up and above her head. The arch of her back is a gorgeous thing to behold.

"You did," Mary says, brushing aside the other lapel and leaving both of Irene’s breasts exposed.

"Mm, sorry about that," Irene says. The end of her words cut off in a pleased sigh as Mary bends her head and takes a nipple into her mouth. "Oh god, that’s nice," she murmurs.

"Mm," Mary hums around Irene’s pert little nipple, the scent of French bath soap wafting up to meet her. She sucks reverently at the stiffening bud, pressing her palm just under, cupping gently.

With her other hand, Mary opens the rest of Irene’s dressing gown by feel, looping the sash around her hand and dragging the fabric over hard hipbones. Mary opens her eyes just briefly and confirms what her fingers felt: nothing at all under the dressing gown.

"Ngh," Irene moans as Mary flicks her nipple, presses it hard between her lips. "Are you hungry?" she asks distractedly. "Should we—dinner?"

Mary smiles and pulls back to answer, “I could certainly eat. But my question to you is…could you?”

"Yes," Irene says without even opening her eyes. "Yes."

Mary sits back up and rises to her knees. She takes off her shirt and bra, undoes her flies and stands up briefly to shimmy off her trousers and pants. Irene watches her all the while, unmoving. 

Mary crawls back onto the bed and kisses her, slow and deep. It’s a kiss of possession, of intent, and she runs her fingers through Irene’s locks to drive the message home. Irene moans into the kiss, cranes her neck up to meet it: acquiescence, this. Surrender.

Releasing the kiss, Mary makes her way past Irene to the top of the bed. She clears the pillows there and pats the empty space. “Come.”

Irene complies, and lies down with her head there, body supine, face up. The dressing gown is barely hanging on, sitting wide on her shoulders and covering none of her as she settles down. Exposed, the pale expanse of skin bared from throat to toes.

"Are you good?" Mary asks, grazing her finger against the Irene’s sharp cheekbone.

She nods. 

"What do you do if it’s too much?" Mary checks.

"I pinch you."

"Where?"

"Anywhere I can touch."

"That’s right."

Mary positions herself close to Irene’s head, plants her hands on the headboard and swings her leg over Irene’s body until she’s straddling that angular face of hers. And then, hands balanced on the headboard, she lowers herself just over Irene’s waiting mouth.

It’s the sight of that mouth, slack and opening wider, that really stays in Mary’s brain. It’s the last thing she sees, the thing she likes to imagine, just as she closes her eyes and feels the hard cartilage of Irene’s nose flirting close to her clit.

Mary raises herself again and lowers herself down again, resettling her thighs, and this time Irene’s tongue lands directly on her clit. It’s a warm wet firmness for her to rub against, a textured wetness that’s just begging to be rutted against, explored, ground down into the bed. So that’s what Mary does. She grips the headboard and rocks ever so gently on Irene’s face, her tongue, her entire mouth, and Irene asks for more by flicking her tongue out, flattening it out for Mary to ride, pointing it to try to lap into her cunt, like she’s thirsty. No, like she’s hungry.

Irene’s hands come up to touch the backs of Mary’s thighs, and it pulls Mary back into her body a bit, makes her aware of Irene’s fingers that may at any moment give her a warning pinch. It’s hard for Irene to breathe like this, so Mary tries to rock backwards and forwards in wider movements, slower arcs. But Irene’s not pinching. Rather, her hands are greedy, sliding up Mary’s thighs and arse, torso and breasts, while Mary’s are busy holding onto the headboard and keeping herself upright. 

She’s properly wet now, between saliva and arousal. She’s wet down the insides of her thigh, down the sides of Irene’s angular chin, all over that petite nose of hers, and Irene has still not pinched. Mary’s rocking just a little faster, more focused movements, grinding down indiscriminately onto Irene’s waiting tongue, brain faintly buzzing with the idea of Irene’s heroic breath holding under her wet cunt.

Mary rocks back further than she had been and Irene takes a hurried breath then. It’s loud in the room, like a stage gasp, and then swallowed up again as Mary moves right back over Irene’s nose and mouth. It’s then that Mary realises that one of Irene’s hands is down, no longer roaming all over her skin. But it’s still not pinching. Irene’s shoulder strains to keep it down in position, and Mary can’t see it, but she can see it in her mind’s eye. But then belatedly, she remember she  _can_ look, and she turns her head to the wall to wall windows, where the reflections of them on the bed are crystal clear against the inky backdrop of London’s night sky.

How it actually looks is even better. One of Irene’s legs, the far one from the windows, is raised, bent at the knee, while the other is down. It’s a perfect picture of Irene fingering herself for anyone looking in their window, or for Mary admiring the reflection. Irene’s arm is held stiffly between her legs and Mary can just make out the strain in her bicep to keep it there, the twitch of her delicate forearm as her fingers move where Mary can’t see.

"Christ," Mary grits out, no more grace in her movements. She grinds down onto Irene’s face with no illusions of decorum, no impunity, and somewhere underneath Mary’s heavy breathing, she thinks she can feel the vibrations of Irene’s arm moving beneath her.

Mary almost has a visual on the orgasm as it rolls onto her. It’s slow, slow, round and full, and then in a few short rocks of her hips, it’s looming: urgent, unstoppable, imperative. And Irene laps it up like she was born to it, buries her mouth in it, laps her clit and licks broadly up her cunt, offering her the flat of her tongue for Mary to ride out her aftershocks.

When Mary pulls off her, Irene sucks in a few deep breaths but mostly her arm is tense and shaking with the force that she’s slicking her fingers up against her cunt.

Mary pulls her up roughly and props Irene up against the stack of pillows off to the side. She settles between Irene’s legs and plunges two fingers into her. She’s wet and hot and ready for it, wanting it, but Irene gasps all the same. Her legs fall open, and the gasp quickly turns into an unthinking moan. Redness is slowly fading from her face and the whole bottom half of her face glistens, so Mary leans forward to lick her flushed skin and kiss her swollen mouth. This kiss is very different from the one before; Irene’s mouth is tired, her lips less intelligently responsive, her tongue moving sluggishly, like she’s drunk. But all the same, Mary loves this, this part. She pumps her fingers in and out of Irene, hard, fast, until it feels like Irene’s vibrating apart and something has to give. 

Irene breaks the kiss; she has to. She’s breathing too hard to not pull back, and then she comes beautifully on Irene’s hand, comes until she’s shaking against the pillows, her bony frame shivering in Mary’s arms. Mary kisses her through it, slows her pumps, slows them, until Irene gives a tiny buck of her hips and renews the kiss. Mary loves this signal and she grins through the next kiss, renewing her fingering until Irene comes again, whimpering, shivering still until Mary kisses them away.

"Shh, shh now," Mary whispers into her hair, the smell of French bath soap mingled with sweat and sex in her nostrils now. "You can tell me all about your day over dinner."

 


End file.
